Born Out of Love Page 8

  Pressing a hand to her throat, she sought to distinguish his whereabouts in the darkened interior, and then blinked dazedly when he flooded the room with electric light. ‘Wh-what are you doing up at this hour?’

  Robert didn’t answer her, gesturing instead towards her pale, shocked features. ‘Hey, did I startle you? I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Charlotte’s teeth jarred against each other. She straightened away from the door, checking that the zipper was in place. ‘Robert, you could have given me a heart attack, frightening me like that!’

  ‘Well, I’ve said I’m sorry.’ Robert spread his hands, young, and disruptively like the man she had just left in his sincerity. ‘What more can I say?’

  She turned on him irritably, ready to make some abrasive retort, and then changed her mind as other thoughts struck her. ‘How—how do you know where I’ve been? Have you been spying on me?’

  Robert looked injured. ‘No!’

  ‘Then how do you account—–’

  ‘I got up for a drink,’ he told her through tight lips. ‘Your bedroom door was open, and I—I was worried about you. Then—then I saw you—both.’

  Charlotte pushed back her hair with a nervous hand. ‘I see.’

  ‘I won’t tell anyone what I saw, if that’s what’s worrying you!’ he muttered, in an undertone, and all the love she had for him spilled over in one devastating surge.

  ‘Oh, Robert, Robert!’ she whispered tremulously, and the next minute his hard young arms were around her, and he was hugging her tight.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ he mumbled. ‘I didn’t mean to spy on you, honestly. I just looked out, and then—and then—I couldn’t look away.’

  ‘It’s all right, love, it’s all right,’ she reassured him urgently, not at all sure that it was. A wave of perspiration drenched her body when she considered what had so nearly happened, but how much had he seen? How much had he understood?

  ‘You’re not angry with me, are you?’

  ‘No. No, of course I’m not angry with you …’

  ‘And—and is it all right if I make friends with Mr Kennedy now?’

  Charlotte felt hysterical laughter welling up in her throat and swallowed it back with difficulty. Oh, Robert, Robert, she thought wonderingly, what would I do without you to keep me sane?

  Lisette was in an ugly mood the next morning. She was already up and dressed when Charlotte arrived at the bungalow, a far from usual circumstance for her, and she started in on the other girl immediately, complaining that Isabelle’s dungarees were not where she had left them, and that since Charlotte came to help her, she had not been able to find anything!

  The injustice of this made Charlotte want to retaliate in kind, and tell Lisette that far from confusing the issue she had in fact created order from chaos. She would have liked to have added that until she came she doubted whether Lisette had known Isabelle possessed any dungarees, considering she had unearthed them from the bottom of Philippe’s toy cupboard. But she bit back what would have undoubtedly developed into a slanging match, and collected the little girl’s trousers from the drawer where they were folded and politely handed them over.

  Lisette snatched them from her hand without gratitude, rolling the protesting Isabelle over her knees, and hauling them on over her nappy without ceremony. Then, looking up and seeing that Charlotte was still standing there, she raised her eyebrows interrogatively.

  ‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘What are you waiting for? I’m perfectly capable of giving Isabelle her breakfast. Go and make the beds like you usually do.’

  Charlotte hesitated, prepared to challenge that order, but then shrugged her shoulders. After all, she had encouraged Lisette to treat her as housekeeper. She could hardly object now if the situation didn’t suit her.

  ‘Uncle Logan’s gone away,’ remarked Philippe, from his position on the floor with his toy cars. For once he had not disappeared before breakfast, and this in itself should have warned her that all was not as normal. Even so, she was disturbed by the feeling of dismay that filled her at this news. It no doubt also accounted for Lisette’s behaviour, too.

  ‘Has he?’ she asked, but Lisette prevented him from enlarging upon the subject by exclaiming impatiently: ‘For goodness’ sake, get those cars out of here, Philippe! If you can’t play in your own room, then you’d better take them outside.’

  Philippe shrugged his shoulders philosophically, and got to his feet, gathering the handful of cars into his arms. But he dropped one and then another, and Charlotte bending to help him seemed to infuriate Lisette still further.

  ‘Leave him alone!’ she snapped, and Isabelle, recognising the tone of her voice and thinking it was for her, started to scream. ‘Oh for heaven’s sake!’ Lisette suddenly changed her mind and thrust the baby into Charlotte’s arms. ‘You deal with them. I’ve got a headache. I’m going to my room.’ And she marched out, snatching up her cigarettes on the way.

  Left to themselves, Charlotte and Philippe exchanged glances. ‘Mummy wanted to go with Uncle Logan,’ the little boy explained candidly, and although she knew she ought not to listen to him, Charlotte couldn’t help herself. Besides, there was something else she wanted to know.

  Putting Isabelle into her high chair and silencing her objections with a rusk, she said casually: ‘Does—does your uncle go away often?’

  Philippe had subsided on to the floor again, cars and all. ‘I don’t know,’ he answered with the inconsequence of any toddler. ‘Look—do you like my Mercedes?’ He made a screeching noise with his mouth. ‘That’s what Uncle Logan says it is—a Mercedes. He said he used to have a Mercedes.’

  Charlotte forced a tight smile. ‘Lucky Uncle Logan!’

  Philippe looked up. ‘Can I have custard for breakfast?’ he asked, startling her by his lightning change of conversation.

  ‘Custard?’ she echoed, without enthusiasm.

  ‘Yes.’ Philippe looked at her appealingly. ‘When Daddy was alive we used to have custard for breakfast. He liked it, too, you see.’

  Charlotte regarded him sceptically. The idea of a Frenchman who liked custard for breakfast was not convincing, and she had learned enough about Philippe in the past week to know that he could be as devious as anyone else. Somehow he had learned that by mentioning his father’s name he could depend on a favourable reaction to almost any request he cared to make, but Charlotte, having had experience with the sometimes calculated emotions of children, guessed he seldom if ever thought of his father these days. Maybe when he was older he would regret what had happened, but right now Philippe lived in the present.

  ‘If you like custard so much I’ll make some for you at lunchtime,’ she promised, disregarding his despondent expression. Then: ‘I wonder where—Uncle Logan has gone?’

  ‘If I tell you, will you make me some custard?’ demanded Philippe eagerly, and her colour deepened in embarrassment.

  ‘No, I won’t,’ she retorted, determining never again to give in to the impulse to question a child. ‘Now, come and have your cereal like a good boy.’

  Robert had laid the table and put the kettle on to boil when she returned home at lunchtime. It was a pleasure to see his cheerful face after the morning she had spent. The Fabergé children had somehow taken their mood from their mother, and had both been as difficult as they could be, so that Charlotte felt utterly exhausted. It was wonderful just to sink down into a chair and kick off her shoes and relax.

  Carlos must have been down, because there were fresh rolls still wrapped in the napkin, and her eyes widened in amazement when Robert produced a dish of deliciously smelling curry from its warming place under the grill.

  He allowed her to stare at him disbelievingly for a few minutes, and then he grinned. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘I didn’t make it. Carlos did. It was supposed to be for him and Mr Kennedy, but he said it would just be wasted now.’

  Charlotte brought her back away from the chair. ‘Mr Kennedy’s gone away,’ she said, achieving what
she hoped was a casual tone, but Robert already knew.

  ‘He’s gone to St Thomas,’ he said, answering her unspoken question. ‘His boss is staying in Charlotte Amalie.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Did you know about that? Charlotte Amalie, I mean.’

  She shook her head. ‘I may have heard it somewhere. But how do you know all this?’

  ‘Well …’ Robert hunched his shoulders, ‘I took you at your word, and went along to the pier. I was looking at the boat when Carlos came out. Do you know what? The boat has an engine as well as sails, and he says he’ll take me out in it tomorrow. Isn’t that terrific?’

  ‘Terrific!’ echoed Charlotte without enthusiasm. ‘Robert, I hope you haven’t been making a nuisance of yourself. I’m sure—Carlos must have things to do—–’

  ‘Oh, Mum!’ Robert stared at her indignantly. ‘Of course I didn’t make a nuisance of myself. I think—well, I think Carlos was quite glad of my company. Some people are, you know.’

  ‘Now don’t start that again.’ Charlotte had had enough of fractious children for one day. ‘About the curry …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Whose idea was that?’

  He flushed. ‘Well—mine in a way,’ he muttered honestly.

  ‘Robert!’

  ‘Well! Carlos was going to throw it out, and I told him you were sometimes tired when you got back from the Fabergés’, so he said I could take it, if I wanted to.’

  Charlotte heaved a sigh. ‘I see.’

  ‘It was no use to him, Mum, really.’

  ‘Wasn’t it?’ She was more doubtful. Then she sighed: ‘Look, what is Carlos having for his lunch today?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘Well, I suggest you run along to the beach house and find out, and if he’d like to come and share this curry with us, tell him—he’s very welcome.’

  ‘Oh, boy, yes. Yes!’ That apparently met with his approval. ‘I won’t be long,’ and he darted out of the room on eager feet.

  As soon as he had gone, Charlotte regretted the impulse which had made her suggest such a thing. What was she doing encouraging him to mix with Logan’s assistant? Just because last night he had cornered her into a reluctant admission of her own involvement with Logan it did not mean she could not retract it in the morning. And yet how could she without alienating him once more? Not for the first time, she contemplated the difficulties coming here had created for her. But Robert was a boy who enjoyed masculine pursuits, and although she didn’t doubt his love for her, forcing him to choose between pleasing her and himself might cause irreparable damage. And Logan was nobody’s fool. He had only to see Robert in a certain way …

  She got up from the chair, her hands clenched, all thought of relaxation forgotten. And she had been dismayed that Logan had gone away, she thought bitterly. She ought to have been cheering. The longer he stayed away, the sooner her month would be up, and she could return to the real task of finding a home for herself and her son.

  CHAPTER SIX

  IN fact, much to Robert’s evident disappointment, Carlos turned down their invitation to lunch.

  ‘He said he’d already had a sandwich,’ Robert explained dejectedly on his return. ‘But I don’t think he wanted to come.’

  Charlotte sighed. ‘Why not?’

  Robert shrugged, lounging into a chair at the table. ‘I don’t know. I just got that impression.’

  ‘Well … If that’s so, what of it?’ Charlotte tried to make light of it. ‘Come on! Have some curry, or it’s going to be wasted.’

  Robert propped his elbows on the table, supporting his chin on his knuckles. ‘Perhaps you were right,’ he muttered. ‘Perhaps I was in the way.’

  Charlotte sank down into her own seat wearily. ‘Don’t be silly, Robert. Eat your curry, and stop looking as if you’d lost a pound and found a penny.’ Conversely now she found herself adding: ‘He wouldn’t have offered to take you out to the reef tomorrow if he hadn’t wanted your company.’

  Robert looked up, doubtful at first and then gaining in confidence. ‘Hey, that’s right,’ he exclaimed. ‘I’d forgotten about that.’

  ‘There you are, then.’ Charlotte tried to keep the irritation out of her tones. ‘Now, can we talk about something else, please?’

  But in the days that followed, she found it impossible not to play some part in Robert’s enthusiastic discussions of his day’s activities. She learned that Logan was making a scientific exploration of the reef for the Mendoza Institute of Oceanography in Rio de Janeiro, that he was studying the coral, and cataloguing the varying species of underwater life that made their homes in and around its living skeleton. Robert came home full of stories of things he had seen from the deck of the sailboat, and once he brought her a large conch shell which he explained Carlos had found on the ocean floor.

  ‘It’s a queen conch,’ he told her proudly. ‘Carlos says that probably something—like the larva of a marine worm, for instance—got inside the shell, and because there wasn’t enough room, the conch died. Isn’t that sad? A huge snail like that dying because of a worm!’

  ‘Men have died for less,’ remarked Charlotte dryly, twisting the conically shaped shell between her fingers. ‘I’ve seen these things in handicraft shops back home. They’re quite expensive. Are you sure Carlos said you could keep it?’

  Robert nodded. ‘Yes. He said you might like to have it for an ornament. He’s got others. He says the meat from them is really tasty, too.’

  Charlotte put down the shell. ‘Not for me, thank you.’

  ‘Oh, Mum!’ Robert laughed at her. ‘You could easily have eaten it without knowing what it was. Carlos says that if you pound it first, it tastes just like veal.’

  ‘Really?’ Charlotte was beginning to get tired of what Carlos had said. ‘Robert, don’t you think it’s time you were getting ready for bed? It’s almost half past nine.’

  Logan came back towards the end of the week.

  Charlotte had not known when he was expected, and had almost succeeded in convincing herself that those moments on the beach had been his idea of amusing himself at her expense. She had decided that he would be as glad as she was when her four weeks were up.

  But then Robert came home one lunchtime with the news that Carlos had had word that Logan was arriving back that afternoon, and that he was bringing his boss with him, and all her anxieties were revived.

  ‘That’s Manoel Mendoza, of course,’ Robert went on knowledgeably. ‘He owns the institute in Rio that pays for Mr Kennedy’s expeditions.’

  Charlotte sighed, her brief period of tranquillity shattered. ‘I suppose Carlos told you that, too.’

  Robert regarded her half defensively. ‘Yes. Why not?’

  ‘It just seems to me that Carlos tells you rather a lot,’ Charlotte replied equably. ‘What do you tell him?’

  Robert coloured. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean if you have these conversations, you must make some contribution to them.’

  The boy shrugged and turned away. ‘I haven’t told him much.’

  Charlotte’s fingers sought the rough edge of the kitchen table. ‘Have you told him about—about your—that Matthew Derby was not your father?’

  ‘No.’ Robert shook his head. ‘I told you I wouldn’t talk about that. It’s—personal.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, it is.’ Relief made her feel weak.

  ‘Besides …’ Robert shifted his weight from one foot to the other, ‘we don’t even talk about it, do we?’

  Charlotte caught her breath. ‘We—we haven’t,’ she admitted, dreading what was to follow.

  Robert hunched his shoulders. ‘At—at first, I didn’t believe him, you know,’ he said, and Charlotte was shocked by her own ignorance of this possibility. ‘I didn’t,’ he repeated, seeing her reaction. ‘I thought it was just another way for him to try and hurt me.’ He paused. ‘But when —when he died …’ He shook his head. ‘If I had been his son, we wouldn’t be here, would we?’ he finished logically.

/>   Charlotte didn’t know what to say, how to answer him. It explained so much, of course, but it left so much more to explain, and right now she did not have the courage to begin some inventive tale about his real father.

  ‘When—when you realised Matthew had been telling the truth,’ she ventured, ‘how—how did you feel?’

  ‘Towards you, you mean?’ Robert shrugged his thin shoulders. ‘I don’t know. It’s difficult to remember. It was all wrapped up with—with him dying, and Aunt Elizabeth —well, Elizabeth anyway, saying that he had come to his senses at last and you didn’t deserve any better … I—I just wished I’d been older, that’s all. I wished I’d been able to look after you, instead of you having to look after me.’

  ‘Oh, Robert!’ Charlotte felt the tightening in her throat. ‘What would I do without you?’

  Robert looked self-conscious. ‘Well, anyway, all I told Carlos was that we used to live in Richmond and that I went to a private school. He seemed to know about—about you being a widow.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I expect he does.’ Charlotte turned to the stove and lifted the pan of rice that was steadily boiling dry. They were back to basics again without Robert asking that impossible question. Contrarily, she wished he had. Not that she could have been honest, she thought bitterly, but it would have been out of the way. Now she said: ‘Sit down. I’ve creamed the remains of the chicken we had last night, so I hope you like it.’

  Halfway through the meal, however, Robert put down his fork and looked at her. ‘You’re not—well, sorry that Mr Kennedy’s coming back, are you?’

  Charlotte concentrated on her plate. ‘Why on earth should you think that?’ she exclaimed, guilt putting the irritation in her voice.

  ‘Well …’ Robert was searching for words, ‘that row you had with him when we first came here—–’

  ‘That’s over, Robert.’

  ‘I know it is. But—well, did it have something to do with me?’

  Charlotte’s cheeks flamed. ‘With you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Robert’s jaw jutted defensively. ‘If—if Mr Kennedy was a friend of—of his, he probably knows I’m a bastard!’